


Construction Work Ahead

by citrusfriend



Series: Poetry [36]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Queer Character of Color, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Genderqueer Character, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Minor Injuries, Only vaguely, Poetry, Queer Culture, Queer Themes, Questioning, Slam Poetry, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, new gender who dis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/citrusfriend/pseuds/citrusfriend
Summary: CAUTION: Construction Work AheadProtective equipment MUST BE WORN past this point
Series: Poetry [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320233
Kudos: 3





	Construction Work Ahead

Gender is a construct  
and I am so tired of being a carpenter.  
My gender is a plaque on my wall,  
a botched attempt at carving  
from when I was a child  
that I still haven't bothered to mend.  
My gender is both the heart and the floorboards;  
it screams and creaks and roars, demands constant attention,  
refuses to let the house settle,  
and I can't afford to remodel.  
My gender is the feeling of blade  
meeting wood, meeting skin, meeting tongue.

My gender is something I have made myself.  
The barely recognizable statue  
of my identity  
was whittled from the scraps of my father's homemade cupboard,  
was patched together with the splinters like a pincushion.  
It is something I will always be proud of, yes,  
but I am tired of having the patchwork  
of my parents' malice spelled across my work.  
There are always slivers of wood in my hands  
and I cannot work this way.

Gender is a construct and mine is no different,  
but my expression is not the only thing I have ever crafted.  
My greatest masterpieces are not wood  
and are not painted in blood.

But an artist I am not;  
construction worker is all I know how to be.  
No matter how much I try,  
I will never be a sculptor.  
No matter how much I try,  
I cannot seem to abandon this project.  
There is no strength in this,  
no grand, cinematic realization of purpose.  
This construct is a talisman for my existence  
that I have built with my own two hands,  
but these splinters have infected me to the bone.  
There is no empowerment here.  
Gender is a construct  
and I am racing against the clock to complete my formation  
before my hands--my livelihood--  
are amputated  
to save the whole of me.

**Author's Note:**

> 1/31/21


End file.
